The Masters' Chronicles 027- Blood and Fate
by Fainmaca
Summary: A Master of the Witcher School of the Cat, Brass of Tridam finds himself facing off against a most unusual creature, and has his skills tested to the limit to try and lift a curse that plagues an entire village. Based on characters and lore from the Second International Storyline of the Witcher School LARP in Poland.
1. Chapter 1

Grey mist crawled across the boggy marshlands, wisp-like fingers stretching across the damp earth as the sun's light faded. A few errant zephyrs tugged at the pale strands, twisting them in unusual patterns as the leaves rustled in the trees overhead. Through it all, a lone path wound its way, marked by a few fence-posts and the occasional haphazard bridge. Mostly, though, the trail was just a line of trampled grass and worn earth, a somewhat dry passage through the wetlands. This was the main through-way between two villages, and in the more wintry months it was rarely travelled, often giving way to the beasts of the land as darker nights encroached on what weak sunlight found its way into the damp, bleak air.

A horse trudged its way along this roadway, an unusual sight even at the best of times on the remote trail. The grey steed, adorned with simple but sturdy tack, bore a weary figure, hunched over the saddle as he tried to shut out the chill of the darkening night.

The man astride the mare sighed, stifling a yawn as he glanced up at his surroundings. He reached up to scratch at the thick, dark brown beard that covered his chin, while piercing yellow eyes glared out from over hardened, stern features. At his breast, resting gently against the thick leather armour, a silver Cat's head medallion glistened in the light of the rising moon. A Witcher's medallion, matched by the two swords that had been strapped to the saddle.

Brass of Tridam, until recently a student of the School of the Cat, now a fully fledged Witcher, had taken the old trail in the hopes of cutting a few days off his travels as he made his way back to his home, the ancient castle of Kaer Marter. As the winter months closed in, travel would become more difficult, and it would be easier for him to pass the cold months in the comfort of the castle, gathering supplies and sharing news with other Witchers. He'd already passed through the village of Boggevrieg some three days' past, and now only the hamlet of Reslien lay before him, after which he could follow the banks of the Pontar all the way back to Kaer Marter.

The Witcher was looking forward to returning home. The kitchens, while hardly a match for the finer taverns of cities such as Novigrad or Oxenfurt, still provided many a sumptuous meal, and he'd seen little more than a few crusts of bread these past few weeks. Clearing out Nekker nests and hunting the occasional rabid wolf rarely provided the kind of coin that could buy rich meats and quality ale. And, if he was lucky, then perhaps he'd get to see-

The thought was abruptly cut off as a faint tremor from the chain around his neck drew Brass' attention. He glanced down to see the fierce Cat's head shiver, jumping on its chain as though it had a mind of its own. In the same instant, the Witcher felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, a crawling sensation teasing its way down his spine. Pupils surrounded by feral amber narrowed into thin slits, his gaze darting about as he looked for the danger that his instincts told him was close. Almost as if attuned to her master's unease, the Witcher's steed halted, snorting anxiously as she glanced about.

Not far ahead of the Witcher, another horse crested a low hillock, outline lit by the rising moon. The steed was pitch black, unnaturally so. Even in the gloom of the night, the beast's hide seemed to draw in all possible light, absorbing it and somehow becoming all the darker for it. Two eyes, red as the setting sun, burned fiercely in its skull.

Brass knew immediately that this was no mere animal. His pulse quickening, muscles tensing under his armour, the Witcher quietly reached towards his blades, gloved hand finding the pommel of his silvered blade.

The beast let out a shrill cry, the noise cutting through the night like a scythe. Its scored across the Witcher's very core, eliciting a shiver of what could have been called pain. The terrible, ethereal cry ripped at Brass' innards as he suppressed a groan, clenching his teeth. His steed, however, was not so resolute. She whinnied in fear, jolting underneath the Witcher as she twisted to run from the beast, in spite of his attempts to keep her under control. With a frustrated grunt, the Witcher raised a hand, fingers twisting in the gesture of the magical sign of Axii as he channelled calming thoughts into the mare's mind. The horse stilled under him, allowing Brass to turn his gaze back towards the strange beast.

A rider now sat astride the creature. Whether the figure had mounted the beast, or emerged from it, Brass couldn't tell. It merely sat there, clad in gleaming leather armour the colour of onyx. A greenish-brown cape fluttered in the wind, torn, ragged, fastened with a pair of silver clasps upon its shoulders. These details were soon lost on the Witcher, however, as his gaze came to rest on the collar of the figure's breastplate, and the lack of anything above it. There was no neck, no head, nothing at all. And yet, even with no apparent features, the creature still seemed to be looking at him. Some dread intelligence fixated its attention upon the Witcher, sending icy shivers racing through his bones.

A hand clad in a leather glove tightened upon the reins that bound the monstrous horse, while a second hand rose, revealing that it clutched a grisly burden. A head, severed from its body, dangled in the figure's grasp, held by long, pale hair. It was hard for the Witcher to be certain at this distance, but he could have sworn that the features of the disembodied skull were too soft to be those of a man, far more slender and graceful. As Brass' eyes narrowed to take in more details, the head suddenly twitched. Eyelids fluttered, opening to reveal, not the eyes of any mortal creature, but rather two blazing azure orbs, shining like lanterns. The mouth, previously clamped closed, now gaped open to reveal the same ghostly light emanating from within.

The sound that followed, Brass would remember for the rest of his days. A scream, but not like anything a living creature could unleash. No lungs or vocal chords of flesh and blood lurked behind the terrible, soul-rending shriek. In it, Brass felt as though he could sense the screams of countless dead and dying, trapped without rest. It felt as though the very air around him had turned to shards of glass, and now several of those shards were piercing him, driving their way through his chest, his muscles, his ears. Then, with a sharp kick to its steed's flanks, the creature surged forth, down the hill.

The Witcher's horse, already barely holding onto its wits, finally broke free of the influence of the Axii sign, twisting to bolt away from the terrifying apparition. Brass clung to the mare's back as she raced down the trail, heedless of footing or low-hanging branches in her efforts to escape. Twigs and thorns whipped at the Witcher's face as he tried to lean forward, pressing his cheek into his steed's mane.

He glanced back, only to see the mysterious horse and rider giving chase, the monstrous pair seemingly unimpeded by uneven ground, low branches or twists and turns in the trail. The pair were slowly gaining on their quarry. The head still dangled from one outstretched arm, while the other hand now clutched at what looked like a long, white whip that, Brass soon realised, was a spine. Human, from the looks of it. With a sickening rattle, the whip cracked backwards, then lashed forwards, licking at the haunch of the Witcher's horse.

Brass' steed let loose a screech of agony as the bones raked at her flesh, scoring several long, deep gashes in the muscle. The stench of blood filled the Witcher's nostrils as the mare stumbled a little, struggling to stay upright.

The Witcher glanced back again, stretching one hand out in a desperate motion, summoning forth the energies of the Aard sign. A bolt of pure, invisible force leapt from his palm, striking the ground underneath his pursuer's hooves in an explosion of dirt, moss and loose stones. The beast surged through the attack, heedless of any damage the earthy shrapnel might inflict. Astride the creature, its rider drew back the whip for another strike.

Brass had no time to steer his mount out of the way, no way to counter the vicious attack as the bony whip lashed out again, this time ripping through the poor horse's hide along its flank and exposing ribs and twitching muscles. The horse, pushed beyond its limits, screamed again, bucking reflexively.

The Witcher tried his best, but the pained frenzy of his steed was too much, hurling her rider clear as she squirmed and tossed her head back in agony. Brass barely had a moment to realised the weightlessness that seized him before he hit the dirt, rolling head over heels through mud and loose leaf litter under, with a loud splash, he came to rest in a shin-deep pond some meters from the trail.

Brass was on his knees immediately, spluttering as muddy water rushed into his throat. He reached up to wipe at his eyes, squinting as his vision slowly returned, and the dizziness that spun within his skull subsided. Somewhere, growing more distant with every second, the sounds of his fleeing horse echoed through the forest.

The monstrous rider, whatever it was, had come to a halt on the edge of the pond. The beastly steed glared at the Witcher with its scarlet eyes, pawing at the mud. Still astride its mount, the rider turned its attention to the Witcher, the hand holding the head now shifting to turn its gaze towards him. The bone whip rattled in its other hand.

Now that he could get a closer look, the Witcher picked out a few more details of his attacker. The body that sat atop the horse was slight, a slim frame hidden well by layers upon layers of armour and clothing. Where skin was exposed, at the wrists, ankles, and what remained of the neck, rot had clearly set in. The flesh mouldered like a weeks-dead corpse, the bloody stump or its neck now pitch black with dried blood. The head, which had doubtless belonged to the body, was similarly decayed, lips pulled tight over teeth the colour of rotten wood, cheeks sunken and sallow, eye sockets deep and hollow. The hair, wispy and pale silver in colour, was streaked through with mud. Still those gleaming blue lights burned where the eyes should have been, making it hard to see whether the eyes actually remained, or had been replaced by some sinister magical force instead. The head moved, turning this way and that as it studied the Witcher. As it did so, Brass caught a detail that made his innards twitch. Pointed ears, to match the narrow face that may once have been beautiful. A she-Elf.

The Witcher instinctively reached for his belt, drawing a long, wickedly sharp hunting knife. His swords, gone with his horse, would be of no use to him now. He readied himself for the monster's next attack.

"Come on then, you ugly bitch." He growled, a deep, menacing tone that sparked somewhere deep beneath his rib-cage. "Come get some!"

The monster continued to regard him, not moving to attack. Brass' brows furrowed, before he noticed the way the beastly horse moved under its rider, teasing at the bank of the pond, then backing away a fraction, pawing at the damp soil in frustration. The Witcher glanced down to the grimy muck that surrounded him, almost reaching up to his knees.

"Ah, don't like the water, do yeh?" He suppressed a grin. "Afraid to get a little wet, or do you just not like taking a bath? Come on, I'm right here, fight me!"

The beast and its rider didn't respond to his words, still clinging to the edge of the water. The duo emanated… not fear, Brass realised, but something else, more akin to frustration. Not a threat, then, just a limitation? Only one way to find out...

"Alright." He shrugged. "If you won't come to the water, then maybe… the water should come to YOU!"

With that last shout, the Witcher thrust his free hand down, casting an Aard sign at his feet. The water around him surged out in a sudden tide, waves splashing up to spatter the two monsters.

The horse-like creature reared up on its hind legs, bellowing loudly as water splashed across its form, summoning wisps of thick, black smoke where it made contact. The rider, almost as if on instinct, lashed out with her bone whip, the rattler of clacking bones loud on the night air. Brass reacted with lightning speed, hand rising to cast the sign of Quen as a shimmering yellow barrier rippled into existence around him, absorbing some of the blow, although what force remained was still enough to knock the Witcher from his feet.

Brass gasped as he was once again submerged in the water, struggling back to his feet. He glanced back to his foe to see her raising the whip once more, making to strike at him a final time. The Witcher instantly knew that he could not block another attack, his personal reserves of magic used up. He braced himself for the incoming blow.

The rider froze, body seizing up as the whip suddenly dangled slack from its grip. The head, swinging from its hand, fixed the Witcher with a terrible, piercing gaze, eyes suddenly far wider than they had ever been. A sudden, sharp shriek tore loose from its withered lips, equal parts pain, fear and fury that struck Brass' ears like a hammer blow.

Then, in a blink, the rider grasped a hold of her reins and, with another terrible snarl, wheeled her mount around. The monstrous steed broke into a gallop, mud churning under its hooves as it loosed a frustrated scream. Then, in moments, the pair were gone, lost among the trees and the mist. A faint echoing cry warned of their flight, but they were nowhere to be seen.

Brass remained still, uncertain of what had just happened. After a moment or two of silence, the Witcher sagged, heedless of the cold water that surrounded him. He breathed a low sigh of relief, returning his knife to its sheath.

As the Witcher glanced down to stow his weapon, a flash of white against his chest caught his eye. A small figurine shaped from white clay dangled from a leather thong, shaped in the crude imitation of a human form. He felt the corners of his mouth tug upwards in the ghost of a smile as he regarded the tiny trinket, a gift from an old friend. It must have been knocked loose from where he normally stowed it away at some point during the fight.

With a swift motion, he tucked the little figure back into his armour and stood again. He glanced about, cursing the loss of his horse. This late at night, in the mist, and with dangerous beasts about, he would be hard pressed to track her. Better to search in the light of day. He looked to the road, still close by. The village of Reslien was very near, if he remembered rightly. He couldn't be sure that wooden walls and the fires of a hearth would keep the beasts at bay, but it had to be better than skulking about in marshland until whatever that rider and her steed was found him again. With no swords and little energy left after the fight, he would not be so lucky a second time.

The Witcher let out a weary sigh as he clambered out of the water, trudging up to the pathway. He glanced back to the mists again, curious about whatever it was he had just encountered. Whatever this monster was, it was dangerous, and he didn't know nearly enough to fight it. Perhaps Reslien would be useful for more than just a dry place to sleep. And, if the monster was enough of a threat, perhaps there was some coin to be earned.


	2. Chapter 2

The central square of the small village of Rieslen was silent, save for the occasional low whisper of wind passing between the squat homes that formed the heart of the tiny settlement. Overhead, the moon was dipping ever close to the horizon, although there was no sign of the rising sun, still some hours away. The darkness of the night would soon be complete, made all the more sinister by the crawling masses of fog that choked the swampland all around. The mists became thinner within the village's limits, dispersed by the buildings themselves and what little warmth they emitted.

Brass struggled to suppress a shiver, his damp clothes now coated in fat droplets of water as the mists tried to cling to him. The chill from his unexpected dip in the pond was beginning to sap his strength. He glanced about, looking for a lit window, a lantern, any sign of wakeful life, but was disappointed, the village utterly dormant.

A frown creasing his features, the Witcher headed for the largest building he could find, presumably the Ealdorman's home. The large manse sat next to what looked to be a small church building to Melitele, offerings of flowers and dried fruits still sitting before a carved wooden figure that matched the trinket hiding within the Witcher's tunic. As the Witcher trudged up to the front door of the manse, he knocked loudly on the heavy wood, the thumping noise carrying far on the night air.

A minute passed, then two. Brass' frown grew deeper, and he tried again, this time more vigorously. Silence greeted him again, and the Witcher tried a final time, his fist pounding against the weathered oak.

"Hey!"

The response startled the Witcher, coming from behind him. He spun to see a doorway on the far side of the square open, the faint glimmer of firelight marking the outline of a man, waving him over.

"What in the hells do you think you're doing, tryin' ta wake the whole village?" He whispered. His eyes widened as Brass drew close, taking in the feral eyes and the medallion at his breast. The confusion that marred his features quickly evaporated. "A Witcher? What is one of your kind doing here? Gods, the Dullahan hasn't killed again, has she?"

"Dullahan?" Brass asked with a raised eyebrow.

"You don't know about her?" The villager seemed surprised. "A phantom that haunts these swamps, headless, astride a great black horse-"

"Hmh… I've had the displeasure." Brass growled, wincing as he remembered details from his fight.

"And you lived?" The villager paused, glancing about the village square before reaching a decision. "Come on in, its not safe to be outside at night. Quietly, though. The children are still asleep, and my Martha will never forgive you if you disturb them."

A warm glow filled the modest home, the embers of a low-burning fire in the hearth casting uncertain orange light and flickering shadows across the wooden walls. To one side, a heavy curtain separated a portion of the house, Brass catching a glimpse behind it of a grubby bed, a woman and two small children tucked away, still asleep. The man gestured towards a low stool next to the fire before turning his back on the Witcher. Brass barely had time to sit on the stool, warming his hands over the guttering flames, before the man returned, half a loaf of bred and a lump of hard cheese in his hands.

"Here." He whispered. "'Tis not much, but you look half-starved, and soaked through."

"Thank you." Brass took the offered food, his iron will tested as he resisted the urge to tear into the few morsels like a wild animal.

The villager, nodding in satisfaction, knelt next to the fire, prodding at it with a poker and adding a few logs to the fire. The Witcher finally allowed himself to tuck into the food, closing his eyes in bliss as the taste coated his tongue. It was simple food, but compared to the scavenged berries and watery mushroom stew Brass had been living off in the wilds, it was a luxury beyond imagining. After too short a time, only crumbs remained. He let out a small sigh of content, hunching once more over the now growing flames.

"You'll have questions, no doubt." The villager was now sitting cross-legged on the floor, watching the Witcher with wary eyes. "I'll answer what I can."

"What is that thing?" Brass nodded his head towards the door, and the night beyond.

"The Dullahan." The villager shrugged. "I'm no scholar to tell you what it is exactly, but its some kind o' phantom. The spirit of a she-Elf, come back to haunt us for what we did to her."

"What you did to her?" Brass felt a sigh of resignation grow in his chest. Why was it always the way with these curses, that the people brought the punishment down on themselves?

"Deanna lives- lived, here, in Rieslen. Came to us one winter, travellin' back to her folks in the south. This were before the rebellions an' everythin'. She helped heal the miller's boy, some kind of herbal mixture to settle his stomach and nurse him back to health. Helped hunt down a boar that gored old Velson, put an arrow right through its eye from a hundred yards. She was useful, and seemed kind. The children loved her."

"Let me guess… then the Rebellions happened?"

"The fighting with the elves never reached Rieslen." The villager answered. "Either we got lucky or, more likely, Deanna made sure her people never came to trouble 'her' village."

"So what happened?"

"Strange things started happening around town. A cow would sicken here, a mother would lose her child during the birth, things like that. Whispers started to go around of a curse on the village, dark magic. Then, the Ealdorman, Porsten, found a shrine in the she-Elf's hut on the edge o' the village. Trinkets o' magic, herbs, pages written in Elvish. She was the one who'd been putting curses on the village, probably as revenge for all her fallen kin in the Rebellions."

"I'm guessing the village didn't take too kindly to an Elven witch in their midst."

"We dragged her out into the square, and then we executed her. It was all over so quickly, we'd done it before we even realised what we were doing." The villager looked down at his hands. "Deanna helped with the birth of my youngest, and then Ceara saw me help hold her down while Porsten took her head. I'm not proud of that, even if she was a witch."

"What did you do with the body?" Brass asked.

"Wrapped her in linen, weighed the body down with stones, then threw her into the river."

"Explains why she doesn't like the water, then." Brass murmured. "Spectres have problems with things connected to their death and especially their burial, of lack of one. How long was it after her death before she showed up?"

"Two weeks… maybe three." The villager shrugged. "She attacked on the night of the new moon, came charging right out of the mists. We all heard the sound of those hooves, pounding through the square. She let out a scream that awakened the whole village. Porsten was the first to rise and go out to take a look. By the time I got out me door… she'd already got a hold of him."

The villager fell silent, eyes turning to the flickering flames. A haunted look crossed his gaze as his memories assaulted him.

"She… she tore his head clean off with her bare hands." He sighed, trembling fingers twisting anxiously. "He barely had time to make any sound. At least it was quick, brutal as it was. She cast the head into the well, then pulled the spine from his body. Still carries it, uses it like a whip. Merda, the priestess o' Melitele, she stepped out at that point, said some holy words or other an' banished the beast, forced it to flee."

"Holy words?" Brass' brow rose at this. "You didn't understand what she said?"

"'Twas in some language I have no ken of." The villager shrugged again. "I'm not learned enough for that kind of thing."

"Hmm..." Brass lifted a hand to stroke his chin. As far as he knew, most if not all the teachings of Melitele were spread in the common tongue. "This Merda, is she still here?"

"Aye, she never leaves the village. Mostly keeps to herself in the shrine. After… after Porsten died, she took on the role of leading the village. Had us carve symbols to Melitele into the trees around the village, said it would ward off the beast. Its kept us safe, so far, but with no traders able to make it here, our resources are starting to run awful thin."

"The phantom runs from images to Melitele?" Brass reached up into his tunic, pulling out the small figurine. His feral eyes narrowed as they examined the little clay shape.

"You're a follower of the Mother, too?" Brass' companion leaned closer to look at the figure.

"Not exactly." Brass tucked the trinket away. "A gift from a very dear friend."

"Then that friend probably saved your life tonight with that."

"Wouldn't be the first time." A ghost of a fond smile tugged at the Witcher's lips.

"Probably best to keep that with you at all times. Must be something about the Mother's symbol that deters the phantom. Mayhaps it fears divine retribution, seeing as its defying the natural order o' the living and the dead?"

"Its usually a little more complicated than that." Brass chewed his lip as he considered his experience. "Monsters don't just fear religious symbols in general. That's just an old wives tale. You try showing a vampire an amulet of the Eternal Flame, and it'll only care if its made from silver. No, the fact that it's the symbol of Melitele specifically the spectre fears tells me that it held some significance to her in life. Did Deanna ever visit the shrine while she was alive?"

"Only as much as the rest of us. When there was a wedding, or a funeral. I think she and Merda got on well, though. The two of them used to go harvest herbs together, and one winter when Merda got sick, it was Deanna who stayed with her, sang to her an' treated her until she was healthy again."

"Sounds like they were pretty close."

"We all cared for Deanna, until we found out what she had been doing." The villager glanced down at his hands again. "Its why it hurt so much, to find out she'd been lyin' to us for so long."

There was a long silence, the crackling of the flames the only sound within the simple home. After a long moment, the villager shuddered, straightening before standing. He glanced to Brass one more time.

"You're welcome to stay here a day or two, Witcher. I know most folks don't trust your kind, but seeing as we've got to learn first hand what the alternative is… I'd rather see us keep the monster hunters around."

"Thank you."

"I know you've not taken a contract for the Dullahan, and we've not much to give in the way of coin or goods, but will you do anything to help us?"

Brass sighed, closing his eyes for just a moment as he considered the question. A hunt without pay at the end of it wasn't something he was particularly inclined to undertake, but the thought of just leaving the villagers to their fate, at the hands of an Elf they had taken in and trusted… he knew he couldn't sit still and do nothing.

"I make no promises. A spectre like this could be a complicated thing to deal with, and there's no guarantees I have the equipment or resources needed for a task like this. It could even be something that needs a user of magic to handle. Curses are awkward, shitty things to deal with at the best of times." The Witcher glanced to the curtain divided the home, and the slumbering family beyond. "I'll need to recover my horse and my gear at first light. She bolted deeper into the swamp when the phantom attacked. After that… I'll take a look at the body, and ask some questions. See if I can find any clues about how she is bound to the village, and whether the curse can be lifted or not. I'll warn you, though, nothing is guaranteed. It could be that this place is just cursed, and the only way to escape it is to get everyone away from here, leave the village to the creature."

"Even a small chance is worth taking." The villager replied optimistically. "After all, why else would the Mother have led you here? A Witcher, finding us in our time of need, it has to be destiny, right?"

"Hmmf..." The Witcher grunted. "Or just bad timing. Don't be so quick to blame everything that happens on something watching over you, some grand plan beyond your control. The only way to live your life to the fullest is to take full responsibility and control of what happens to you. Nobody controls our lives but us."

"Maybe so, but I find a comfort in thinking that Melitele still takes an interest in our safety, and grants us her boons when we need them most." The villager turned away, heading back towards the curtain and his family. "Goodnight, Witcher, I'll help you find your horse after sunrise, then I'll show you where we put Deanna to rest in the river."

Brass nodded quietly, waiting until the villager had vanished behind the curtain before turning back towards the fire. Outside, a faint cry carried far on the night winds, a shrill screech that found its way into the Witcher's spine.


	3. Chapter 3

"What about a Manticore?"

"Once, but only from a distance. Master Ulf took care of it before we could even find its lair."

"Oh… a Wyvern, then?"

"A few. They're quite common along the Kestrel Mountains."

Brass paused, raising a hand to halt his companion, the villager who had given him shelter the previous night. The villager, Marren, nervously shifted from foot to foot as the Witcher tilted his head to the side, listening for sounds on the wind. Brass dropped to a knee, eyeing a trail of deep hoof-prints in the soft mud. He dabbed his fingers in the spatters of blood that followed the trail. Still tacky to the touch, although in the damp air that wasn't much to judge by.

The pair had been following the trail for close to an hour by this point, starting from where Brass had first seen the creature known as the Dullahan and had lost track of his horse. Now, the sun was slowly climbing from its starting point on the horizon, warmth slowly flowing into the day. After a long moment of quiet while the Witcher scanned the nearby surroundings, Marren spoke up once again.

"You really don't expect to be paid for this? Most mercenaries we know of would turn their back on a village with no coin rather than stick their necks out like this."

"That's your first mistake- Witchers are no common mercenaries." Brass answered gruffly. "We take coin for what we do, yes, but it's not our sole reason for plying our trade. A monster's a monster, and needs to be destroyed. Otherwise, it gets harder to get rid of. Shaelmar grow fat in their burrows, Ghouls multiply out of control, curses last for generations, until their mortal anchors have moved across the continent or otherwise become impossible to find. I'm saving myself a harder job fifty years from now." He glanced back over his shoulder. "Besides, I'm sure you and your fellows will remember my medallion next time a Witcher comes to town looking for a place to sleep, right?"

"But… it still doesn't feel right, letting you risk your life for next to no reward." The villager glanced down at his hands, before a thought struck him. "What about the Witchers' Law of Surprise? 'That which I find at home, but I don't'..."

"If you have any respect for yourself or your family, you won't finish that sentence!" Brass wheeled, his eyes burning brightly as venom tinged his words. Marren shrank backwards at the fierce tone.

The Witcher paused, allowing his shoulders to drop. As the tension flowed from him, he let out a long sigh.

"Sorry. Just… don't go giving away control over your life through a stupid promise like that. You never know what you're giving up, that's the whole point of the oath. With just a couple of words, you could be giving up something truly precious." Brass looked up at the sky, eyes narrowing as he watched the clouds scudding by overhead. "Believe me, you don't want your free will to be taken away by some being more powerful than yourself, whether it's Fate, Destiny, the Gods, or some other kind of monster."

Marren had no response for that, simply nodding his head silently and falling in step behind the Witcher. Regretting his words a little, Brass turned back to the trail, leading the way swiftly into the marshland.

After a few moments, the pair finally stumbled on a scene that made the Witcher's heart sink. Ahead, atop a low hill, the remains of Brass' horse glistened in the morning light. Exposed ribs shone with a scarlet glimmer. Two wolves nipped at the corpse, pulling at the entrails and exposed flash. Feral snarls rose into the air as they fought over a particularly choice piece of gristle.

Brass' eyes quickly absorbed the scene. He picked out the pommel of one of his swords, the bundle holding it partly covered by the corpse. From the looks of things, in spite of the messy end the steed had met, most of his equipment remained intact. The only issue facing him now was how to retrieve it.

Almost immediately after the pair caught sight of them, the wolves stiffened, hackles rising as they sniffed the air. They turned to face the Witcher and his companion as vicious snarls twisted their blood-stained snouts. The larger of the two growled before unleashing a deep, baleful howl that carried far across the swamp, echoes answering it from half a dozen other throats. Brass winced, mind racing as he reached for the knife tucked into his belt. He dropped into a low crouch as he spared Marren a backwards glance.

"You should get somewhere safer. Climb a tree or something. This is going to get messy."

Without even looking to see if his words were heeded, the Witcher turned his eyes back to the wolves, locking gazes with both of them. The beasts began to move forward, splitting apart to flank the Witcher on either side. Their amber eyes gleamed with feral intent as red tongues curled behind white fangs. Brass returned their snarl, his knife sitting lightly in his palm.

The larger of the pair lunged first. The brute surged in as his pack-mate circled around the Witcher's side. Never taking his eye fully off the second wolf, Brass raised his knife arm, ready to block. The beast leapt, maw agape. The Witcher's arm moved in a blur of swift motion, striking a vicious blow that slashed at the creature's snout and summoned forth a stream of blood. The wolf let out a yelp as the Witcher turned its momentum against it, twisting his body as he thrust the creature to the side. The beast tumbled into the dirt, leaping back to its feet in a blink.

No sooner had Brass dealt with this threat than the second wolf charged in, going low and snapping at his ankle. Bloodstained fangs gnashed at the leather of his boot, but could not gain purchase before the Witcher lashed out with a powerful kick.

The Witcher let out another growl as he faced his foes once more, hefting his knife once more. The beasts let loose a furious growl before launching a renewed attack, this time with the larger predator going low while the smaller one jumped. Brass caught the first with another kick, while a sharp jab with his left fist broke the smaller beast's attack. The pair, undeterred, remained close, jaws gnashing at their prey. Brass slashed with his knife, first left, then right, reversing his grip to plunge the blade into the shoulder of the largest wolf. The beast yelped, backing away as the blade tore free from its flesh.

A bloom of pain exploded in Brass' calf as the second wolf sunk its fangs into his leg, tearing through the fabric of his trouser leg and ripping at the flesh beneath. The Witcher grit his teeth, swinging powerfully with his clenched fist. He struck once, twice, three times until he heard a sickening crack from the beast's skull. The wolf's grip weakened, the beast staggering dazedly away.

Before Brass could follow up, the other wolf was back, a strong body tackle knocking the Witcher off balance as it lunged at his throat. The Witcher raised his arm to fend off the attack, pushing back against the beast but pinning his weapon hand between himself and his enemy. The wolf's teeth gnashed mere inches in front of Brass' face, flecks of spittle and blood spattering across the Witcher's features. Brass shoved back against the thrashing beast, managing to push it back a couple of feet, before the smaller wolf was back, tackling him from the side. The second beast got a hold of the Witcher's free wrist, crunching down on it powerfully. The Witcher grit his teeth, barely containing a hiss of pain.

The two wolves wrestled with the monster hunter, trying to drag him to the ground. Brass stood strong, resisting their efforts as all of his muscles tensed. Then, with a grunt, he twisted, dragging the wolf latched onto his wrist. He thrust with all of his might, swinging the snarling beast against its pack-mate and dislodging the pair. Then, refusing to relent, the Witcher lunged at the bigger beast. He tackled the wolf, wrapping his arm around its neck as he bore it to the ground. The beast squirmed under his grasp, trying to twist and bite at him. Brass snarled as he tightened his grip further, suddenly twisting harshly. A hollow snap echoed forth, and the wolf went limp in his arms, the Witcher thrusting it aside with a grunt. Slowly, Brass climbed back to his feet, turning to face the second wolf.

The smaller beast was seemingly undeterred by the death of its pack-mate, instead merely baring its teeth once more. It crouched low, muscles twitching, before launching itself in an all-out attack. Brass yelled, swinging his knife in a wide arc. He spun out of the way of the attack, his weapon cutting a silvery arc through the air before planting itself squarely between the ribs of the wolf. The weight of the beast tore the weapon from the Witcher's grasp, almost dragging him to the ground as it tumbled away.

Brass staggered, turning to face the wolf once again. He tensed as the beast turned, looking to him. Its eyes burned with fury as they glared at the Witcher, before slowly, inexorably turning upwards as the beast flopped to the ground. It rolled onto its side, showing the knife sticking out from its chest as rivers of scarlet flowed from the wound, surging with each pulse of its failing heart. Finally, after mere seconds, the flood of lifeblood slowed to a trickle, and stopped.

Brass stood stock-still for a short moment, holding his breath as he watched for any twitch of movement from either beast. The air hung closely around him, heavy and thick as he drew in deep breaths. Finally, he was satisfied, releasing the tension in his shoulders as he turned back to where his horse lay. He limped over, wincing as pain pulsed in his leg. The wounds were not deep, and would soon heal with his mutations, but it was still not pleasant. He glanced down to his wrist. The leather of the glove and the bracer had not been broken, but he could already feel a growing fire in the joint. Maybe a sprain, or even fractures in the bones. The bite had been powerful, and he was luck the arm had not shattered.

The Witcher knelt next to his horse's corpse and rifled through the saddlebags. It seemed as though everything was in order. The Witcher allowed his mouth to twitch upwards grimly. Good enough. The loss of a horse was a problem, but not insurmountable. He pulled the two swords from their places on the saddle, rolling the grisly carcass out of the way to free up his steel blade. Almost everything he needed to hunt a monster.

A sudden cry tore through the air. Brass spun, rising to his feet. He quickly spotted Marren, having obediently followed the Witcher's instructinons, climbing a small yew tree that was ill-suited to hold his weight. Beneath him, a cluster of a half dozen wolves circled the tree, hungry, smelling blood and meat on the air.

Brass sighed, unsheathing his steel blade. There was work to do.


	4. Chapter 4

The river gurgled quietly, thick with mud and silt. Squat, fat toads crouched on the banks, their croaks a little cacophony rising into the air while birds swooped by overhead, dipping into the waters in pursuit of little fish.

Marren watched the waters tensely, pacing back and forth as the moments passed by. A knot of worry gnawed at his guts as his hands clenched and unclenched. It had been too long, far too long.

With a gasp, Brass breached the surface of the water, his braids flicking back and forth as he shook his head to dislodge the water and mud that threatened to run into his eyes. In his arms, a stained bundle weighed him down, making any efforts to stay afloat that much more difficult. With a grunt, he kicked towards the bank, slowly dragging his burden with him. Finally, with a little help from Marren, he heaved the sodden bundle up out of the water, clambering after it. The villager offered a hand to the Witcher, still breathless with worry.

"By the gods, I thought you'd drowned!" He exclaimed. "You were down there for at least ten minutes."

"Killer Whale potion." Brass breathed heavily as he sat upon the bank, wiping at the muck that mingled with his beard. "Helps me hold my breath for longer. The potion's effects ran out towards the end, wasn't expecting to take so long. Its murky down there."

"Aye, storms woulda washed a bunch o' muck into the waters. Some of the bank upstream collapsed two days back." Marren paused, glancing at the long, tightly wrapped bundle. Tension filled his features. "You sure this is a good idea?"

"I need more information." The Witcher answered. "If I want to figure out how to get rid of the spirit, I need to look at her body, understand how she died."

"If you say so..." Marren's tone brimmed with doubt.

Carefully, the Witcher took his knife to the soaked ropes, struggling to saw through the bloated fibres. After a few minutes of work, the bundle was untied, the linen falling away to reveal its contents.

"Oh, Melitele's grace..." Marren wilted at the sight, turning away. Retching sounds rose in his throat as he staggered away.

The remains of the she-Elf known as Deanna released a pungent odour, the stink of rot hitting Brass like a war-hammer. Worm-like creatures writhed in the waxy remains of whatever fat and flesh had once clung to bones that were almost completely picked clean. A few small fish flopped about in the hollow remains of her ribcage. The skull, no longer connected to the rest of the body, rolled free from the bundle, the Witcher just barely catching it before it slipped back into the river.

Brass lifted the skull for a closer look. The bare bone and empty eye-sockets stared wordlessly back at him, the features elongated in a fashion the Witcher knew all too well. Clearly Elven, from the sharp cheekbones to the teeth, smaller than a Human's and lacking any sharpened canines. He turned the lifeless hollows of its eyes away from himself, running rough fingers over the smooth dome.

"Some small cracks here. She take a hit to the back of the head?"

"Uh..." Marren hesitated, unable to turn and face the Witcher and his makeshift autopsy. "Maybe. I think one of the lads hit her with the handle of his pitchfork as we were trying to tie her up."

"Hmm..." The Witcher allowed his gaze to turn to the rest of the corpse. "A few cracked ribs, looks like someone got a few kicks in while she was down on the ground. Fingernails are still there, but some are broken. All signs of a struggle."

Brass leaned forward, his willpower stronger than the stench. He moved closer to the neck and shoulders, eyes narrowing.

"Lot's of damage to the neck and the collarbone. Whoever took her head, he was lousy with a weapon. Reckon it must have taken him a dozen or so swings before he was even close to killing her."

"Porsten, the Ealdorman, he was the one to do it." Marren shuddered. "He used an old axe that was better for wood than warfare." The villager's shoulders slumped as he still could not look back. "There was so much blood, and she screamed for so long."

"Not a clean death." Brass clicked his tongue. "Lot of suffering, lot of time to spit ugly words. There are a lot of curses that find their root in the desperate words and thoughts of the dying."

A flash of white caught the Witcher's eye. There, among the muck that had once been a living being, a small shape poked out of the slurry. Brass reached out, hand going up under the ribcage as he reached out for it. Ignoring the slimy feeling of the waxy residue, he scooped up the tiny trinket, surprised to see a familiar shape on the rotting remains of a leather thong. A quick tug tore it free.

Brass leaned back on his heels, lifting the trinket into the light as he wiped away more of the gory grime that clung to it.

His eyes roved across the familiar shape, noting the signs of wear. Some edges had been worn smooth, the figure's curves and contours shiny as if rubbed by fervent fingers countless times. The Witcher's mind looked back to Vreni, one of his closest friends during his years of training. He remembered the way she would pray while holding a similar totem, he fingers caressing the small shape as she recited holy words. This was a well-loved and much-used symbol to the goddess.

"Melitele..." The Witcher mused as he glanced out to the river that had been the she-Elf's resting place. "It always seems to come back to her, huh? What was her connection?"

Marren did not answer.

"Marren, are you sure you never saw Deanna go to-" Brass turned, only to see his companion looking away, staring wordlessly at some point behind the Witcher. Slowly, the monster hunter turned, rising to his feet.

A woman stood there, not young, but not old either. The first signs of grey had begun to run through her chestnut hair, while the occasional wrinkle roughened otherwise smooth skin. She wore a simple smock, light green, with an off-white apron over it. A braided cord of brown and emerald green girdled her waist, while a brown shawl draped over her shoulders and down her back. She looked to the Witcher, and the grisly bundle that sat before him. Wizened eyes flicked to the trinket in his hands, and then to the hunter's eyes.

Absorbed as he was in his investigation, Brass could not miss the flash of emotion that appeared in that gaze. He'd seen grief many times before on his travels. He looked at her expectantly, unsure of how to break the silence. Finally, it was she who broke the tension in the air.

"I think I may be able to give you the answers you seek, Witcher." Her voice, although hoarse, was still kind. She glanced to Brass' companion. "Thank you, Marren. I can help our friend from here."

"A-are you sure, Merda?" The villager stammered. "This is the first time I have seen you leave the village since-"

"I'm sure, Marren. Go back to your family. Make sure the children don't get into trouble. Your Martha has enough on her hands without running after them all day, too."

Marren, without a further word, merely nodded and moved to obey, glancing sideways as if to bid the Witcher farewell. Once he had passed the priestess, as Brass could confirm as he caught sight of the symbol of Melitele fastened to the cord at her waist, the villager spared a backwards, surprised glance, almost as if unsure that he could really believe what he was seeing.

"Go, Marren." Merda didn't even look around, refusing to break eye contact with the Witcher. "I am certain that our burly friend here can keep me safe should the need arise."

With that, Marren was gone, and the pair were left alone. Merda regarded the Witcher for another moment, eyeing him up and down, then sighed.

"The townsfolk say that you plan to rid us of the Dullahan." She began to walk towards the Witcher, the long skirt trailing through the grass to hide her feet. "Do you?"

"It's my job to hunt down monsters wherever I find them." Brass shrugged.

"Even when there is no pay to be had?" She spoke cautiously, her eyes shining with an intelligence that was hard to read.

"I am sure things will work out, one way or another." The Witcher shrugged, uncertain in the face of the woman's shrewd gaze. "All I care about is one less monster terrorising the common folk."

"Hmm." The sound was utterly unreadable to the Witcher. Then, with a twitch of her head, she gestured for the hunter to follow. "Come. Walk with me. I'll tell you what you need to know."

With that, the priestess turned away from the bundle, beginning to walk along the riverside. Brass, still clutching the totem in his hand, swiftly followed.

"I assume Marren gave you the gist of how Deanna died?" The priestess asked.

"Yeah, more or less. She-Elf came to live here, bad things started happening, the villagers found out she was using magic to curse them, and executed her."

The older woman grunted disapprovingly.

"That is the tale most believe, yes."

"But it's not the whole truth, is it?" Brass asked warily.

"Porsten, the last man in Rieslen to hold the title of Ealdorman, was a pig of a man. He waved his authority over any and all within the village. Half of the little ones I helped to deliver each year were his bastards. When Deanna arrived… she caught his eye."

Brass suppressed a sigh. The number of times he'd had to deal with a curse brought about by another man's ability to keep his trousers buttoned, a scorned lover or a family broken. And for an Elf, of all things… Merda did not miss the subtle sound.

"I see that you know where the tale is heading. Yes, Porsten lusted after Deanna, and time and again she declined his advances. She was better than that." The priestess idly plucked a blade of grass, running her fingers along its length as she gazed out over the river. "Porsten, so used to getting his own way, could not accept this. Offended, he chose to exact his revenge. He worked at it for months, slipping idle rumours in the tavern, gossiping with the men at every chance he got. Pretty soon, he had almost the whole village jumping at shadows. He was a pig, but a cunning one."

"And then the crops failed." Brass concluded.

"I'm not sure if that was a stroke of luck for him, or maybe the sickness of his mind polluted the land." Merda cast the blade of grass aside. "I pray to Melitele that it was not a deliberate act on his part. Many children starved that winter."

"And when the blame fell on Deanna..."

"Desperate people do not think rationally. When Porsten produced his 'proof' of her witchcraft, they did not question it. They had someone to blame for their suffering, and they did what any mob will do when stirred up in the right way."

"Marren said that she had a magic altar in her home…?"

"An altar to her own goddess." Merda replied as she stopped, gazing out over the water coldly. Ahead, just appearing around a bend in the river, a small wooden pier could be seen, fit for fishing or mooring up a small row-boat, although none was there at that moment.. "Decorated with flowers and carvings that she made, gifts from her family before she came to Rieslen. A thousand different memories of her life, private and precious. The people could not see that. They saw what was different to their own and, with Porsten fanning the flames, they burned it to the ground before executing her."

"And so she rose after her death, looking for revenge."

"It only took a few nights." The priestess explained. Moist eyes turned to the Witcher. "You must understand, she was never like this in life. She kept to herself, respected other people's space and never interfered. She was an efficient hunter when she needed to be, but never caused harm unnecessarily. She was never cruel, and certainly never vengeful. When she first arrived, many of the townsfolk treated her with suspicion, but she took it all in stride, forgave freely, and lived as one of us." Her mouth twisted downwards, a dark light entering her eyes. "If Porsten hadn't… look at the horror of what he did, what it turned her into!"

"Death twists even the best of people into all manner of monsters." Brass answered. "But I don't think it was just Porsten that she came back for. If that were the case, surely she would have faded after his death, her revenge achieved."

"So… what? You believe that she's come back for the whole town? Wants to kill everyone involved in her execution?"

"Perhaps… but maybe not." Brass lifted the totem he had taken from the corpse, offering it to the priestess. Pieces began to fit together in his head, a puzzle solving itself. "Why don't you tell me about this?"

Merda looked at the trinket warily, a hesitant hand reaching out to grasp it. She turned it this way and that, as if seeing it for the first time. A wan smile slunk across her features.

"You know… the Elven goddess is very similar to Melitele. She presides over life and motherhood, grants fertility and bountiful crops. When I spoke with Deanna, I was amazed at how similar her beliefs were to my own. Maybe they even had a similar root, long ago, and simply found different names among our peoples."

She handed the totem back, but Brass did not take it, instead watching every tic in her expression, reading her carefully.

"Its just a silly little trinket." She shrugged dismissively. "I gave it to her as a payment, for all the good she did for the village."

"No."

Merda glanced up at the Witcher's word, surprised.

"No? What do you mean, 'no'?"

"That's no simple trinket, and it wasn't just a reward for a job well done." Brass pulled his own symbol from where it hid next to his breast, holding it clear for the priestess to see.

Brass looked to the trinket in his hands, feeling the hours that went into making it, the kindness and care behind it. His mind filled with memories, some warm, others not so much. A face, a touch, a whispered word. Feeling these thoughts and emotions rise within him, he pushed on.

"It's a symbol of protection, and something that you give to somebody you truly cherish. It's a gift between two people who care for each other a whole hell of a lot. So maybe, instead of telling me just a fraction of the truth, you can tell me what was really going on."

Merda sagged, all confidence leaving her as she looked down at the totem again. A long moment passed before she pulled her own symbol from her belt, holding it beside the other. It was then that Brass spotted the similarities between them. The same lines of wear and tear, the same quirks in the design, the same pigmentation visible in the colouring. Clearly made by the same hands, and more than likely at the same time, a matching set. Finally, her voice brittle, Merda spoke again.

"Deanna and I were… more than close." She admitted. "It began so innocently, talks of our faiths, foraging trips into the forest, working to help the village. Over time, it grew into something… special. I began to care for her, and in time realised that she felt the same for me. We couldn't tell anyone, of course. A Human and an Elf, both women to boot? With the rebellions so recent in everyone's minds, we knew we could not let our relationship be made public. So we kept ourselves a secret, hid our meetings when we could, kept the pretence of propriety when secrecy was not an option." She glanced back over her shoulder to the pier. "This was our favourite spot. Close enough to the village to reach easily, far enough away for privacy when needed."

"Did Porsten know?"

"I don't think so." Merda considered. "Otherwise, chances are I would have been driven out of town. He was malicious enough that I think uncovering what we were up to would have driven his selfish heart wild."

"I see." Brass tapped a finger on his bearded chin. "So, on the night Deanna was… killed, where were you?"

"I'd arranged to meet her out in the woods that night. I waited a while, then saw smoke rising from the direction of her home. I ran to see what was wrong, and I got there in time to see the ruins of everything she owned, with no sign of her. That was when I heard the screams." Merda began to quiver, hand clenching tightly around the totem. "Her screams, coming from the market square."

"You went to investigate?"

"Of course I did!" Merda answered quickly. "I got there just in time to see the men beating her, the women throwing all kinds of insults and cruel words at her. Porsten was there, reading out his list of accusations, pronouncing judgement."

The priestess' voice hitched, a lump seizing in her throat.

"I could have stopped it all, if I had only stepped forward, told them all the truth."

"Why didn't you?"

"Because I was scared!" Merda spun to face the Witcher, tears that had been dancing in the corners of her eyes now flowing freely. "Speaking up would have meant revealing what we had done, what I felt, that I was..." Words escaped her for but a moment. "That I am who I am."

The priestess' head slumped forward, a few sobs wracking her frame. Brass, unused to such situations, raised a gentle hand out to touch her shoulder. Cautiously, he squeezed the shoulder, trying to offer support. No words came forward to aid him, so he elected to wait in silence, hoping that his presence might in some way be a help to her. Eventually, her sorrowful weeping slowed, and she continued.

"I was a coward, and allowed the woman I loved to be killed by that mob. I still remember the last moments, before the axe fell for the last time. She looked up, and she saw me, through the crowd. She looked right at me, as though she could sense that I was looking at her. She stared me right in the eye as they killed her. Now she's this… this thing, and I don't know what to do." She glanced up into Brass' eyes. "How do we stop her, Witcher? How do we put her to rest and end this madness?"

"I'm not sure." Brass admitted, his mind still working the details over.

"Then… she'll keep attacking? Keep appearing until the whole village is dead?"

"Perhaps not." Brass answered. "I don't think she's after the village."

"If not, then what does she want?" Merda was shivering again.

"You need to understand, there are many ways that curses are created, but the most powerful rise from violent death… and love betrayed." Brass raised a hand as the priestess opened her mouth to reply. "I know there was no ill intent in your actions, but it is possible that you failing to speak up made a link between you and her spirit, something that prevents her from resting. It would explain why she responds so violently to the sight of any symbols of Melitele- the represent the bond you once had, the one that robs her of her peace. When Marren told me about the first time she attacked, he said that you used some 'holy words' to drive her away. What did you say? Was it some kind of prayer to Melitele?"

"Not… not a prayer, no." Merda's voice dropped low as she looked down at her hands, clasped tightly in front of her belly. The totem still poked out from between her fingers. "Its was Elvish. Just some words she taught me that we'd use together. I called her 'Iaith na Suilean Muire', my lady with the eyes like the sea. Then I begged her to leave, to stay away."

"And she listened to that." It was not a question. "So clearly you have power in this situation, because of your bond."

"Does that help us?"

"Yes, it really does."

"Do you know how to help us, then?" Merda moved forward, one of her hands clasping at the Witcher's. "Can you help bring peace to Deanna's spirit and free us from the curse?"

"Maybe." Brass stroked his chin as he thought, glancing at his surroundings. An idea began to glimmer within his mind. "There are a few things I'm going to need first, though. there's a lot of work to be done before sunset."


	5. Chapter 5

Dusk had fallen, casting the sky with numerous shades of orange, violet and deep blue as the light of day began to fade. Here and there, a firefly would flit through the air, emerald pulses of light emanating from it. The river continued to bubble peacefully, the occasional trout breaking its surface to lunge at a low-flying insect.

The grace of the sight was lost on Brass, preoccupied with the task before him. He carried another bundle of wood towards a small construction close to the river's edge, a makeshift pyre. Runes surrounded the pyre, symbols that any Witcher would recognise as Yrden, the Sign of Entrapment. The strange symbol, a jagged, angular shape that resembled two triangles laid tip to tip, was an ancient design, dating back long before Humans roamed the lands. The Witcher had carved these into the mud all around the pyre, forming a near-perfect circle.

Close by, the priestess watched with curious, uncertain eyes. Merda had offered her aid in the preparations, but the Witcher always preferred to make the preparations by himself. When it came to ritual and magic, he took no chances. Instead, he bade the priestess keep watch over the bundle that held the remains of Deanna, keeping scavengers from getting to it.

Finally, just as the fat white moon began to crawl up above the treeline that marked the horizon to the east, Brass was ready. A quick inspection of the pyre gain a nod of approval, after which the Witcher moved close to the priestess, glancing down at the bundle, then up at the sky.

"Won't be long now."

He looked to the surrounding trees, noting the mist that now crept between the trunks, growing thicker with every passing moment. Soon, it would be impossible to navigate one's way through the forest with any measure of certainty. Seeing this, the Witcher knelt next to the bundle, reaching for the satchel that he had laid there. He delved into it, pulling out a few bottles and jars. He glanced to the tree, where his silver blade lay resting against the bark, point upwards to avoid dulling it in the mud. He opened one of the jars, its contents a thick, almost paste-like mixture that just barely qualified as a liquid. He dipped a scrap of cloth into the mixture before inspecting the flecks of powdered gemstones that glistered in it. The flecks shone with ethereal energy, a faint gleam that the eye struggled to perceive. The Witcher began to rub the mixture over his blade, running the cloth along its length in slow, deliberate strokes. Merda watched all this in solemn silence, although her gaze kept going back to the bundle of stained linen that held the she-Elf's remains. The subtle movements of her head were not lost on Brass.

"Are you ready for your part?" He asked.

"I..." She paused for a long moment, chewing her lower lip. "I'll do my best."

"A proper funeral is an important part of dealing with any restless spirit." Brass explained, realising he needed to sharpen her focus. He continued adding the glowing mixture to his blade. "It's the first step to helping her find peace, but it's only one step in the process. We need to break her physical ties to this world. The funeral rite and the pyre will lure her here, and then leave her spectral form vulnerable to attack. When she shows up, it is vital you do not leave the circle, understand? Once her remains have been burned, the phantom will be all the more dangerous."

"Surely she won't try to harm me." Merda protested. "After all we shared-"

"Don't fall into that trap." Brass interrupted. "This is not the Deanna you remember any more. We're dealing with a very powerful and very dangerous spectre. Once her physical links to the world are destroyed, she'll be even more dangerous, because she's under threat. She will kill any living thing she comes across, including you. No leaving the circle, do I make myself clear?"

Merda was silent, but finally nodded, meeting the Witcher's stern glare. Satisfied, Brass finished preparing his sword and laid it down on the grass. Finally, he stood, reaching down to pick up the bundle.

"Its time." He gestured for the priestess to follow him, striding towards the pyre. He carefully laid out the bundle, unfurling the linen to expose the decayed remains.

With this done, the Witcher stepped outside the circle of runes, nodding to Merda one final time before retrieving his sword and kneeling in the dirt. He took a moment to draw a couple of small phials from his pack and lay them on the ground in front of himself, one shimmering green, another icy blue, and the final one clear. One by one, he popped the cork on each phial and drank the potion within. Thunderbolt, Blizzard and De Vries Extract. The moment the last of the potions slipped down his throat, he felt his body convulse, muscles twitching and swelling with sudden tension. His eyes grew hot in their sockets, the optic nerves blazing as he found himself perceiving countless extra details about the world around him. Colours faded, but the finer details became incredibly easy to spot, even with night falling and the dim gloom of the moon. He could feel the power now coiled within his body, eager to be unleashed. There was nothing else he could do to prepare.

Finally, he took a deep breath, laid his sword across his knees, and closed his eyes. The power of the potions was coursing through his blood, a wild animal waiting to be unleashed. Carefully, he focused on his breathing, keeping tight control over his instincts.

As the Witcher meditated outside the circle, Merda began her work. She pulled her symbol to Melitele from where it hung on her belt, holding it between her hands as she began to chant. Brass was no man of great faith, but he knew a prayer when he heard one, even as he recognised the words being uttered as Elvish in nature. Her soft, weary voice echoed through the trees as she recited the funerary rites, stretching out her hands over the remains. The words, part song, part heartfelt speech, rang out loudly.

Before long, Brass realised that all birdsong in the forest had faded. Even the insects and frogs were beginning to fall silent. The Witcher kept his eyes closed, tilting his head towards the centre of the sudden silence. Slowly, cautious as a serpent, his hand reached out to grasp the hilt of his blade, then finally the Witcher opened his eyes.

With a terrible shriek, the Dullahan emerged from the forest, her demonic steed growling as it pawed the ground feverishly. The phantom rider kicked the flanks of the black-haired beast, urging it forward. In one outstretched hand, the long whip made of the Ealdorman's spine clacked loudly. In the over, her severed head gaped its maw, rotten tongue writhing behind dessicated lips. The eyes glowed with sickly green light, piercing the mists effortlessly. The ghostly glare fixed on the Witcher, a flicker of recognition behind the rage as another scream tore through the forest.

In the circle, Merda faltered, her words stumbling as fear gripped her and she turned to look at the approaching monster. Brass leapt to his feet, fingers already tracing the magical symbol of Yrden in the air. With a grunt, he thrust his palm down onto the damp earth, the runes he had already carved into the circle flaring with magical power as his energy flowed into them. A faint, almost invisible barrier appeared around the circumference of the circle, fully protecting the pyre, the remains, and the priestess. He locked eyes with Merda, teeth bared as he snarled a command.

"Keep going!" He growled. "Whatever you do, don't stop the ritual until the fire is lit!"

The priestess hesitated but a moment before, with shaking hand, she returned to chanting in Elvish. The Dullahan paused, glancing from the Witcher to the pyre, seemingly confused. Then, with a snarl, she kicked the horse's sides again, urging it towards Brass. The Witcher dropped into a crouch, readying his sword.

The Dullahan charged, her steed releasing a ghastly bellow as it surged forward. Brass tensed, waiting until the very last moment before hurling himself aside. He rolled in the mud, quickly spinning and rising into a crouch, blade still at the ready. As the horse rushed by, the Witcher lashed out, silver blade cutting through the air in a broad arc. Brass' heart surged as he landed a hit on the horse's foreleg, but the flesh of the spectral creature shifted and changed, becoming smoky and indistinct, and the blade did no damage.

The monster barrelled past him, Dullahan nudging it into a swift turn. The spine whip cracked in its grip, a loud snap spearing through the night air. Then, it charged again. Again, Brass remained low, throwing himself out of the way, But this time as the beast reached the end of its charge and began to wheel around, the Witcher reached down to his belt, detaching a small glass sphere from the hook that held it there. A mere instant of focused thought and a twitch of his thumb brought forth a few sparks, lighting the fuse as he lobbed the grenade at the phantom rider.

The glass orb landed in the mud underneath the hooves of the ghostly horse, only the briefest of moments passing before a loud, low pop filled the air. There was a white flash, and a rapidly expanding cloud of shimmering silver engulfed the monster. The Dullahan and its steed shrieked as the cloud of powdered Dimeritium swallowed them, clinging to their ethereal form and dragging it into the physical world. Flesh that had once been little more than moving light now became startlingly solid, unable to return to that near-gaseous state. The wild red eyes of the horse and the luminous ones of the headless she-Elf both turned to their attacker in fury.

Brass charged towards his disoriented foes, silver sword slashing upwards in a vicious attack that split flesh and made the horse rear up on its hind legs. As it did so, the Witcher pressed his attack, summoning a surge of power as his free hand drew back, magical energies curling around it. With a ferocious bark of expelled breath, he cast Aard, a blast of concussive force racing forth from his outstretched palm to strike the rearing horse.

Both horse and rider were cast back by the magical attack, the thing that had once been a she-Elf tumbling from her saddle as the screeching horse toppled onto its back. The creature thrashed in the mud, hooves struggling to find purchase so it could right itself.

Brass barely had time to celebrate the small victory before the Dullahan rose to her feet, severed head still clenched in her grasp, the glowing eyes threatening to pierce him with pure hatred. She drew back her other arm, lashing out with the spine with vicious intent.

The Witcher ducked, just catching the tip of the creature's whip on his blade, bone on silver making a sickening cracking sound. The Dullahan attacked again and again, each time forcing the Witcher to block as she took another step forward. Brass managed to block the first blow, and the second, but the third allowed too much of the bone whip past his guard, snaking around the blade as he tried to parry. The end of the whip lashed around the blade, catching the hunter across the face and leaving a stinging welt on his cheek. Brass twisted away from the blow, wincing as the red fire of pain welled up just under his eye. A close one. Just a half inch higher, and he would have been blinded.

As the Dullahan wound up for another strike, Brass feinted backwards a half-step, then lunged. Just as the spectre stepped forward to make her attack, the Witcher's sword pierced her gut, driving deep. The monster swung at her attacker frantically, the head dangling in her grip swinging uncomfortably close to Brass' face. He felt the wheeze of damp, rotten breath wash across his features as a low, primal growl escaped from her. With a jerking motion, she pulled herself off his blade, stepping back to wind up for another wild flurry of lashes.

The phantom suddenly froze, hesitating just a moment. It glanced past the Witcher, then released a sudden shriek of madness. It was only at this point that Brass realised that Merda's chanting had stopped, and the faint flickering light of orange flames danced across the ground around them. Brass spared a momentary glance backwards to spot the priestess, torch held in her hand, standing next to the now blazing pyre, the remains of Deanna already beginning to emit thick plumes of choking grey smoke.

The Dullahan let out a scream of rage, raising the hand that held her whip to point at the priestess and utter some unintelligible threat. She took a menacing step towards the circle, lashing out with the spine clutched in her hand, but a flicker of violet energy flared up from the runes surrounding the pyre, deflecting the attack. The monster's eyes narrowed, glaring at the runes that now barred her way.

Knowing that the sign he had cast would not block a sustained assault, Brass moved in again, silver blade tracing swift but vicious lines as he slashed at the monster, drawing her gaze back to him. The Dullahan snarled, retaliating with a few licks of her whip. The Witcher blocked them with some effort, stepping forward to attack then retreating when the frenzied blows became too much. The pair danced back and forth like this, circling the pyre as the flames grew more and more intense. Soon, they stood between the pyre and the river, the little pier that Brass had noticed earlier in the day close by.

The Witcher lunged under another attack from the creature, spinning to deliver a powerful kick squarely to her chest. The Dullahan gasped, stumbling back. Seeing a split-second of an opportunity, Brass reached for his belt again, grabbing another orb and lighting the fuse.

The Dullahan had no time to react as the little device was hurled at her, striking her shoulder before, with a much louder bang than the first grenade, the Samum bomb detonated. A ball of fire and compressed air rushed outwards in all directions, hurling the Dullahan from her feet. Flames licked at her clothes now. She hit the ground with a loud thump, the severed head finally slipping from her grasp to roll across the dirt.

Brass rushed after the head, stopping it with a booted foot and raising his silver blade to skewer it through one of the glowing eye sockets. The Dullahan's head glared up at him with pure rage, unadulterated hatred, meeting the Witcher's gaze unflinchingly. Time seemed to slow down around Brass as he made ready to make the kill.

So absorbed was the hunter in his moment of triumph, he didn't notice the rumble of hooves behind him. Before the Witcher could react, the massive bulk of the Dullahan's horse barrelled into him. Before the much larger beast, the hunter had no chance to make a stand, immediately thrown from his feet. Plate-like hooves threatened to trample him, one stomping on his wrist and forcing him to loose his grip on his sword, the other trampling his ankle and sending spears of agony through his body. The horse continued its charge, hooves kicking him a couple more times as he rolled, until finally he tumbled out from underneath the beast. The Witcher rolled to a stop on the riverbank, mere inches from being cast into the rippling waters. Next to him, the pier rose from the mud. Coughing, feeling the pain in his muscles, Brass reached out to grasp one of the pier's support struts, using it to haul himself upright.

The whip struck him in the back, sharp fragments of bone cutting through the leather of his armour and digging deep into his flesh. The Witcher staggered, but remained on his feet, clutching at the pier. He turned around, settling his eyes on the Dullahan. The monster, now back on her feet, had retrieved her head, glaring at him with hatred. Behind her, the Witcher's sword gleamed in the mud, beyond his reach.

Snarling, Brass dragged himself up to his full height, squaring off with the phantom she-Elf. His ankle blazed with white-hot agony, making the effort to stand upright all the more tasking. His blood pounded in his veins, the remnants of his potions beginning to seep from his system as their after-effects faded. His vision was already beginning to blur. He met the gaze of the beast, the features of the dead she-Elf twisting and pulling back in a savage snarl. For a moment, the features seemed to contort in an unnatural way, and Brass saw a face that was familiar, one he had grown to dread and fear. Animal instinct took over, and the Witcher lunged, arms outstretched as he sought to grapple the monster.

As Brass' shoulder met with her midsection, it was like trying to tackle a stone pillar. Unnatural strength rooted the monster in place, the Dullahan retaliating with a lash of her bone whip. Once again, splinters of bone dug deep into the Witcher's back, tearing his armour open and ripping deep gouges in the skin below. The monster shoved against him as she reversed her grip, bringing the fist that clutched the spine down in a powerful strike to the back of his skull.

Stars wheeled in Brass' vision as he staggered back. He shook his head, clearing his vision, but the moment's hesitation was all the Dullahan needed, her whip twisting through the air as she brought it low, wrapping it around the Witcher's injured ankle and pulling with a mighty tug. With no time to react, the Witcher's feet were swept out from underneath him, the impact driving all breath from his lungs.

Dazed, Brass struggled to draw in a fresh breath. He groggily raised his head just in time to see the Dullahan drawing closer, staring down at him with contempt. Her head still rested in her left hand, her right rising high as it drew the whip back for a lethal blow. Brass tensed in anticipation of the attack.

"Deanna!"

Merda's cry stopped the Dullahan in her tracks, the creature turning towards its source. From his vantage point on the ground, Brass turned his head to the side to look in the same direction. The priestess, fear evident in her trembling form, walked towards the pair. In her outstretched hand, the two tokens of Melitele hung on their cords, the clean white of Merda's own one, and the stained grey of Deanna's, discoloured from so much time underwater. The priestess held the two symbols in front of her, almost like an offering, as she stepped out of the circle and towards the Dullahan.

"Merda… no!" Brass managed to gasp. "Get back in the circle!"

"It'll be alright, Witcher." The priestess didn't take her gaze off the Dullahan. "I know Deanna. She won't hurt me."

The Witcher rolled over in the dirt, trying to get his feet under himself, but the pain from his ankle made movement difficult, and standing nearly impossible.

"No, listen to me!" He grunted. "She's not the person you knew any more!"

"I know what I'm doing." The priestess proclaimed, taking another step towards the spectre. "She would never hurt me in life, she definitely won't in death."

The Dullahan turned towards the priestess, taking a wary step forward. The glowing eyes looked to the symbols, and then to the gentle features of the priestess. There was a rattle of bones as the spine whip dropped from her grasp to land in the dirt, seemingly forgotten. The creature took another step towards Merda. The priestess responded with a smile.

"It's me, Deanna. Your Merda. Remember?"

The Dullahan let out a curious croak, lifting the severed head. Carefully, she placed it upon the stump of her neck, balancing it carefully there. The eyes seemed to grow with a brighter light, almost as if recognising the small woman that stood before her. The dead she-Elf took another step towards her, then another, until at last the pair met at the riverbank, where the small jetty met the land.

Merda paused a moment, then lifted her free hand to brush at the cheek of the creature, sadness tingeing her smile. Tears danced in the corners of her eyes.

"I'm sorry, Deanna. For everything. It shouldn't have ended like this."

The creature merely stood there, staring down at the shorter woman. A low grumble escaped from its throat. Slowly, carefully, a withered hand reached up, catching the hand that held the symbols. The ethereal stare turned to the small trinkets, regarding them silently for a moment.

"Do you remember, when we used to come out here?" Merda prodded, reaching out for the creature's other hand. She turned towards the pier, nodding towards it. "We'd sit at the end there, and watch the night pass together. You'd tell me about your people, and explain to me the plants and creatures of the land. I could have just sat there and listened forever."

Slowly, gently, the priestess took a step towards the pier, guiding the she-Elf with her. To Brass' surprise, the Dullahan followed her. In moments, the pair stood at the end of the little dock, watching the waters rush by. The Witcher, still ill-at-ease, rolled onto his belly, managing to rise onto his hands and knees, even as the last of the effects of his potions vanished and a mixture of exhaustion and his injuries threatened to overwhelm him. He raised his head, looking again to the priestess and what remained of her she-Elf lover. He risked a glance backwards, towards the pyre. The body had been utterly consumed by the fierce flames, now only wood and ash remaining. He turned back to the duo on the pier.

"I wish I'd said something." Merda said, regret weighing on every word. "Maybe if I'd spoken up, they wouldn't have done what they did. Or maybe we'd both be… we'd both..."

She trailed off, lowering her head to stare at the wooden boards beneath her. A faint shudder passed through her shoulders before she straightened, turning to face the creature.

"You can't stay here, Deanna." She said firmly. "Your time in this world is over. It's time to find peace, my love."

The Dullahan tilted her head inquisitively. Suddenly, a sound escaped from her, equal parts groan, gurgle and sigh. A single word.

"Peace..."

"Yes, that's right!" Merda's expression lightened, a little hope sparking in her eyes. "You can be at peace! You just need to let go and move on."

"Move… on..." The voice sounded like wet meat being torn. One hand reached up to cup the priestess' jaw, the rough skin making Merda twitch at first, before relaxing into the gesture.

"Yes..." She managed through the tears. "I will help you, Deanna. I promise, there'll be no more suffering after today. Just trust me, it'll be over soon."

"Trust..."

The she-Elf's other hand rose to mirror the first, now fully cupping the priestess' face in her hands. The Dullahan leaned forward, face inches from Merda's. The priestess closed her eyes, leaning into the grasp of her former lover. As the Dullahan's lips hovered a hair's breadth from the priestess', four words slipped from her throat.

"It'll be over soon..."

Before Merda could react, the creature's hands moved, grip shifting from cupping her face, to curling around her throat. The priestess managed a croak of surprise before, with a snarl, the Dullahan hurled itself into the river, dragging her with it. As she tumbled, the priestess flailed wildly, one of her hands catching the edge of the pier as she was dragged into the water.

"No!" Brass scrambled forward, moving as fast as he could up onto the pier, half crawling, half lunging.

The Witcher rushed to the end of the dock, frantically reaching for the thrashing priestess. Merda, fear shining in her eyes, struggled to keep her grip on the damp wood, nails leaving long scratches as the current pulled at her. The Dullahan's headless body still clutched her tightly around the waist, clawed hands tearing at her with feral swipes. The terrified priestess let out a few whimpers of pain as her own blood began to stain the water. Slowly, surely, it was beginning to climb her, fighting against the current and her panicked kicking.

Brass flung himself to the end of the pier, hand reaching out to grab the priestess by the wrist. The Witcher tugged with all of his might, but the combined weight of the priestess and the Dullahan was too much. Merda clutched at him desperately with both hands, locking her eyes with his. For just a moment, the two looked into each other's eyes, the priestess terrified, the Witcher determined. Then, with a swift lunge, the Dullahan surged forward, wrapping her arm around Merda's shoulder and wrenching her from his grasp. The priestess let out a final, desperate cry before the monster dragged her beneath the surface, leaving Brass to lie there, hand outstretched.

Silence fell across the river for a long moment as Brass lay there, panting, dizzy, exhausted. He stared at the water's surface, momentarily at a loss, before glancing to his hand. In his palm, the two trinkets to Melitele, pulled from Merda's grasp as the pair clasped their hands together.

Anger swelled inside the Witcher. His fist clenched around the trinkets before he struck the wooden boards of the pier, a loud thump that echoed across the water.

"Damnit!" He cursed. "Fuck!"

The Witcher's head sagged, his rage sitting heavily upon him as weariness filled his limbs. He lay there for some time, until the sound of a heavy tread behind him forced him to look up again. He glance to the side to see the Dullahan's steed approach the edge of the river, sniffing at the water. Its red eyes watched the now placid surface for almost a minute before it tossed its head back, releasing a terrible bellow as it vanished, leaving behind only a few inky black wisps of something akin to smoke. Its cry echoed far on the wind, an unnatural reverberation that stretched out and slowly, very slowly, dissipated. In moments, it was gone, and Brass was alone again. Utterly spent, the Witcher remained where he was, too injured and exhausted to move, and the blackness of unconsciousness claimed him.


	6. Chapter 6

Pain was the first thing to greet Brass' senses as consciousness slowly returned to him. Faint warmth caressed his face, the first few beams of sunlight trying to force their way through his closed eyelids. Clearly after dawn, then. As the thought pierced his mind, sounds filtered their way into his ears. The rippling gurgles of the river, the twittering of birds overhead, the whisper of wind through the forest.

A hand grasped his shoulder, shaking him. That must have been what initially roused him. With a grunt, the Witcher opened his eyes to see the anxious features of Marren looking down at him, the villager chewing his lip as uncertainty gripped him. The moment the hunter showed signs of life, the young man immediately calmed, tension seeping from his shoulders, but the worry remained.

"You're alive!" The young man, kneeling over the Witcher, shuffled back a half pace to allow him to sit up. "When I found you, you were so cold and still..."

"Yeah, that'll happen sometimes." Brass grunted. "Not the first time I've had to sleep rough. Probably won't be the last."

He sat up, reaching down to feel at his ankle, remembering the injuries from the previous night. The flesh was slightly swollen, but his Witcher physiology had already begun healing, what had been a debilitating sprain a few hours ago now little more than a bad bruise. He could walk, at least.

Marren remained close by, his expression troubled. Normally much more talkative and curious, the peasant's silence caught Brass' ear.

"Is something wrong?" The Witcher asked, concern blooming inside him.

"What happened last night?" The peasant asked. "Did you face the Dullahan?"

"Yeah, I did."

The Witcher shuffled towards the edge of the pier, wrenching his boots off one by one. Then, slowly, he lowered his bare feet into the cool water, sighing as the chill took some of the tension out of his muscles.

"...And?"

"And I fought it. Merda carried out the ritual, the monster appeared, and I faced off with it." Brass paused, chewing over his next words carefully. "The beast has been sent on from this world. The curse is lifted, so it cannot return."

Silence hung in the air between the pair for a long time. When Marren finally spoke, the arrow of accusation lay hidden in his tone.

"We found Merda's body, floating in the river by the village. She got caught in some reeds, and one of Ullan's young 'uns found her."

Brass sighed, his shoulders sinking. He'd known he'd need to talk about it, he just had no idea how to bring up the topic.

"Things… didn't quite go as planned." He admitted. "She stepped out of the ritual circle, made herself vulnerable. The Dullahan grabbed her and dragged her into the river, and I was not able to react in time to save her."

"What do you mean, she stepped out of the circle? Why would she do that, if it wasn't safe?"

"She thought she could try reasoning with the monster, appeal to the woman she used to be."

"I don't understand." Marren had his hands on his hips, frustration obvious in his stance as he glowered at the river. "What was she thinking, trying to talk to a beast like that?"

Brass paused, his gaze flickering to a spot next to where he had lain all night. The two trinkets still lay there, side by side. He considered his next words very carefully.

"Maybe she didn't fully understand the reasons herself." He shrugged. "Maybe it was just in her nature to try and be kind to the creature. Maybe her faith compelled her to show a simple act of compassion to someone she used to know. Whatever the reason, the beast was not who she thought it was. There wasn't anything left of the she-Elf in her. Just a monster."

"Ahh… Damnit." Marren cursed. "The village is already in mourning over her passing."

"I did what I could." Brass insisted. "There was no way to save her."

"Hm..." The villager didn't look towards him. "And you're sure the Dullahan is gone? For good?"

"Almost certain." Brass affirmed. "It has no ties remaining to keep it here. The last things keeping it bound were destroyed last night." He gestured towards the smouldering pyre. "Once the body was burned, the spirit needed only to be dissipated. That happened when it went into the water."

"If you say so..."

Brass sighed, turning away from the villager. He lifted his feet from the river, shaking them dry before putting his boots on again. Standing up, it took him only a couple of minutes to gather his belongings, scuff the runes that had once marked the magic circle, and then he was ready to leave, Marren in tow.

~o~0~o~

Marren had been silent the entire journey back to the village, his head lowered as the Witcher led the way. Brass merely shrugged, assuming that he was grieving. The journey did not take long, the pair soon emerging from the forest to see the village ahead.

As they approached, a figure spotted them, running deeper into the village and vanishing into one of the buildings. In moments, a small crowd began to gather, blocking the road into Rieslen. Brass could feel his muscles tense, anticipation of a fight building within him. He kept his hands to his sides, keen not to start a violent confrontation unless he needed to.

A large man, built like a blacksmith or a tree-cutter, stepped to the front of the crowd. He carried a small hatchet, held loosely in his grip, but still ready to be used. A number of others in the crowd carried tools and weapons of varying kinds. Eventually, the man at the front of the crowd spoke up.

"That's far enough, Witcher." He growled. "We don't want your kind in our homes no more." His head twitched to Brass' companion. "Come along, Marren."

Marren pushed past Brass, slipping into the crowd with nary a word. The young man refused to meet the Witcher's gaze, his eyes fixed firmly on the ground under his feet.

"I've dealt with your monster." Brass declared loudly, so that everyone could hear. "The Dullahan is gone, and with it the memory of what you did to Deanna."

"What we did was protect our own." The bulky man retorted. "Same as we are ready to do tonight, or any other night."

"I'm not here to pass any kind of judgement." Brass quickly replied. "Just deal with the monster problem. I've done that now."

"Aye, and got our Merda killed while you were at it!" A voice crowed from the back of the group.

"Her blood is on your hands!" Another cried.

"I'm sorry for what happened to her." Brass' words were genuine, for as little as that mattered to the mob. "If there was a way I could have saved her, believe me, I would have."

"Well, you didn't." The ringleader snapped back. "And now we have another one of our own to mourn. So how about you piss off and take your cursed hide out of here!"

"Typically, a Witcher gets paid for the work he does…" Brass began, but the sussurus of indignant whispers and muttering quickly threatened to drown him out, as the ringleader snorted irritably.

"You took no contract for the beast, Witcher, and we made no promise of coin!" He snarled. "Get out of our sight. We don't want you or your ilk to darken our doors again!"

Brass felt his hackles rise at the ringleader's tone, the leering grins on some of the villagers' faces, the stubborn air the mob carried with it. With not a little effort, he bit his tongue, keeping from releasing a scathing retort. He could probably have killed a great many of them, maybe even all of them, but it would achieve nothing. Another dead village lost in the wilds. Slowly, quietly, he released a low sigh of frustration.

"As you wish." He muttered through clenched teeth. "From this day forth, you won't see me or any of my Guild here, ever again."

With that, he turned on his heel, marching away from the village and into the forest. Behind him, the jeers of the mob followed for a little while, along with the occasional rock or handful of mud.

"Freak!"

"Murderer!"

"Filthy mutant!"

Finally, after what felt like days, but must only have been seconds, the Witcher slipped into the forest and, true to his word, a Witcher was never seen in that village again.

~o~0~o~

A faint breeze danced through the grass, weaving delicate patterns as it twisted this way and that. In the sky, the sun was now reaching its midday zenith, and would soon begin its crawl down towards dusk. Somewhere to the north, the smoke of Rieslen rose into the sky, signs of a village slowly getting back to its normal, day-to-day life.

The low hill overlooked the river, a little ways off. At its peak, a lone elm towered, vast branches spreading in all directions to create a huge dome shape. The giant tree stood sentinel over the land for some miles around, home to countless birds and small animals.

Brass stood under the tree, leaning against it as he watched the river flow by far below. He leaned back, feeling the rough bark against his back as he closed his eyes in thought. Back on the road, no food in his pack, no coins in his pouch, not even a horse any more. His options were growing limited. Perhaps it was time to turn back to Kaer Marter, visit the old castle again.

He stood there for some hours, enjoying the cool air and the calm breeze. Then, finally, after a great deal of thought, he stood up, adjusting his equipment for the march ahead.

The Witcher turned back to the tree, reaching into one of the pouches on his belt. Solemnly, he pulled out the two trinkets to Melitele, regarding them for a long, long moment before, with great care, he laid the two symbols at the foot of the tree, side by side, their arms interlocking. He stood over them for some time, bowing his head as he looked for the right words.

"I'm..." He sighed. "I'm sorry. I wish things could have gone better. For you both. I hope that, wherever you ended up, you're both together now. Maybe that's one thing that your goddess can do for you, if nothing else."

His short, somewhat gruff words concluded, the Cat School Witcher lifted his head, turning towards the south. Within moments, Brass returned to the Path, leaving the tree, the trinkets, and the whole experience of the Dullahan of Rieslen behind him.


End file.
